It's all in your head, Sherlock
by McGregorgirl
Summary: After Reichenbach...WAY WAY WAY AU. Sherlock's fall doesn't go as planned, and he winds up trapped in his own mind palace. "What if I am not everything I think I am?" What if he's not? Rated M for some content, language etc.. yada yada yada.. LOL
1. Chapter 1

Ok y'all... since I am semi blocked on the other two stories...

This one is gonna be a bit... different. But the idea has been brewing around in my head for a while now. Just a bit of fun, really. Hope you all enjoy!

As always I own notice. Damn and blast it! :)

Chapter 1

Sherlock scanned the view of the city with trepidation. So many things could go wrong. This may be the last time he will lay eyes on his beloved city.

He hadn't had to conjure fake tears as he had spoken to John. They were all too real. But Sherlock had no choice. John would be left broken, but at least not dead. Small comforts. He didn't dare take one more look down into the terrified face of his best friend. Couldn't afford to second guess himself. He was going to have to fall, and concentrate on HOW to fall. He couldn't allow distraction.

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock took a deep breath and extended his arms, eyes on the sidewalk, angling himself to the fall as the sidewalk seemed to rise up to meet him. There was really only two basic ways this could end. Either he would breath his last, or not.

His whole body tensed out of instinct as his mind prepared for the unavoidable pain of impact.

It didn't come.

Just as he turned to land on his side, and saw him pass the roof of the ambulance port, the whole of his vision became a blinding white.

In the next moment, he found himself laying still on a hard surface. He blinked against the light that seemed to seep out of every corner. He sat up quickly, his mind automatically trying to deduce just what was happening.

He was clearly unconscious. Perhaps concussed and the white like was how his body translated the pain. Spinning his head around he took in the feel of this place. Suddenly he smiled to himself arrogantly. His mind palace! His mind retreated here while his body was wracked with pain. Yes, that must be it. Soon, he would hear Molly's voice telling him to wake. Mycroft would collect him any moment and...

But why was everything so unfamiliar? The room itself was stark white, no furniture and a solitary door on one wall. It stood out quickly as the only color he could see. He got up hesitantly and walked to the door. It was covered in what looked like a couple of years worth of dust. Something seemed to be written under the dust. Sherlock lifted long fingers to wipe at the words, hoping to have some clue. When he did, his brows furrowed in confusion and his heart thrummed loudly in his chest.

221B

He slowly turned the knob on the door, expecting to see the glass plated door just beyond. He did not. The door opened into the living room of his Baker Street flat. He looked about the flat, his confusion growing. This is wrong. Its all wrong. His flat in his mind palace was considerably more tidy than the one in reality. But this one looks exactly as he'd left it. Papers tossed here and there, books and/or experiments stacked on almost every flat or semi flat surface.

There was also one very noticeable difference. He was not alone, and the other occupant was not John.

In HIS chair beside the fireplace was a man. Face buried in a paper, legs crossed and foot doing a small seemingly subconscious jig. Sherlock didn't speak, choosing instead to deduce what he could before making his presence known.

First of all, the man was dressed in a pair of jeans that had seen better days. Worn for comfort not for style. An equally well worn t-shirt was topped by a dark cardigan sweater. Sherlock's gaze swept down and his eyes widened as he saw simple tennis shoes encasing the most god awful pair of striped socks that didn't really match any of the rest of the ensemble. His fashionable senses made him give an involuntary hiss, drawing the man's attention.

The paper lowered so Sherlock could see his face. Snug little jaunty gray cap covering neatly trimmed reddish hair. His face...

Sherlock took a step backwards in surprise as he stared into his own eyes.

"Who are you? " He demanded.

The man gave him a warm grin and tipped his head.

"Welcome home, Sherlock Holmes. Make yourself comfortable. You'll be here for a while. "

The man rose up and laid the paper carefully on Sherlock's desk, heading to the door.

"I asked who you were. " Sherlock said impatiently.

"I'm you. Sort of. Now, stay here and relax. Don't leave this room until I come back for you. "

"Wha... "

Before he could ask another question, the man gave him a wink and disappeared through the door. Sherlock followed, throwing the door open. Instead of seeing the previous room now, though...

This was more like it! He saw a long familiar corridor. Doors lining either side of it. His mind palace... good.

Don't leave this room indeed. Like Sherlock Holmes took orders from anyone! He took a rebellious step forward, then another. Finally he reached a door he knew would contain information on Moriarty. He might as well try to get some work done. Once he woke up and healed, he would have to go after his network. Not a moment to waste!

He turned the gold knob on the door and opened it.


	2. Chapter 2

megsterleigh- Molly will make an appearance, as will John and Mycroft. But not in their usual context. All part of the puzzle :)

Chapter 2

Sherlock stepped into what he thought would be a familiar room to him. But the room was nothing like he'd left it the last time he spent time here. The room had previously been very sharp angled, cold...calculating... like the man it was devoted to.

This room looked like a museum exhibit.

Dark wood paneled the walls. Heavy uncomfortable furniture was scattered about here and there. Books lined several walls of the small room, almost like a fort. Sherlock walked a little further in making his deductions though the unfamiliar space. Not a single book he scanned the title of was less than two hundred years old, but in excellent condition, considering.

Truth be told, it wasn't all that dissimilar to his flat, papers in organized clutter on top of and between books. He picked up one of the books with narrow eyes, scanning it context. All of them seemed to be in topics Sherlock rarely concerned himself with, like those...law things.

He wondered absently if his mental Mycroft had decided to change rooms of his mind palace. No, his brother was far to maticulous for this room. The books would at the very least be alphabetized.

Going father into the room he noticed a large but plain desk somewhat askew in a corner by what looked to be a window. Sherlock took a step backwards in confusion as there was a man sitting behind the desk. It wasn't until he saw the fire lit lamp on the end of the desk that he realized it was actually rather dark in the room. His eyes took in the reflective glow that flickered against the polished shine of the walls.

"May I help you? "

Sherlock spun his attention back to the desk and faced the man behind the voice.

"Who are you? " Sherlock said, the shock in his voice barely concealed as he took in the features of the man before him. Again, looking strikingly like himself, but not.

"Considering you are in my office in the late hours, uninvited, I think that question is better posed to you, don't you think? "

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. "

"How unfortunate for you. I'm afraid I am terribly busy at the moment, so if you need to speak to me, please make it brief. " He said, lowering his head, continuing his work.

"Who. Are. You? " Sherlock replied, trying to annoy the annoying scratching sound that was made as the men put a feather tipped quill to parchment.

The man looked back up, tilting his head and tapping the tip of his quill.

"Currently, I am Prime Minister. Mr. Pitt if you prefer. I can only assume you would know that as you wandered into my office. "

"If I knew that, I deleted it. "

"Del... really, sir... I must ask you to state your business. I have a lot of work to do. "

Sherlock, feeling bolder stepped closer to the desk.

The man must have had some kind of fetish he let loose in the private quarters of his office after hours. His hair was pulled back into what probably started the day as a snug ponytail, secured with a simple black bow. Silly little curls hugging the base of his cheekbones. His coat hung haphazard on the back of his chair. His shirt was crisp and while, and billowed slightly, coming to intricate ruffles at his wrists. He had initially been wearing a cravat, but that hung loosely about his neck now. Sherlock couldn't blame him. This man probably found it uncomfortable as Sherlock found ties.

He wore a gray waistcoat that was barely held closed by a sing button.

Sherlock turned from the man's appearance to the splay of papers on his desk. Leather bound correspondence, drawing of...where those...Africans? Slaves... if Sherlock surmised correctly by the shackles that contained the images.

"Interest in the slave trade? " Sherlock arched a brow, careful of his words.

"Have you been in another country, man? Or do you not have the ability to read a newspaper? We are trying to abolish the trade. "

"That was done some time ago. " Sherlock said absently, then jarred himself that that information was there for him.

The man looked at him oddly.

"A great day that will be when that can be said. "

"But you are not thinking about the abolition. "

The man narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

"How..." He sat back in his chair and sighed heavily, giving a sharp nod.

"The ramifications of this will be far reaching. For England and for the Africans. When we eliminate the trade... then what? There will be financial issues for many British citizens. There could be higher cost of goods due to it, not to mention supply of goods being hampered. Then there is th African's. What do we do with them? Bring them here? Train them for work? Will that put English citizens out of work? Do we make them British citizens? Do we send them back to Africa? To what? Some of these people have been in the indies for generations. Where would they be going back to, precisely. Would they even trust getting on ... "

" I see. " Sherlock didn't, but wasn't going to let that on.

"Then please understand I am not trying to be rude, but I am awfully busy. "

"Why you? "

"Why...me? " The man looked flabbergasted.

"Yes. Why. You? "

"Because I am Prime Minister. "

"So... you own some of these slaves. "

"...No."

"Then why is it your problem? "

"Because I am ...human. And... incidentally, in charge. "

"And... "

"And... I have drank tea sweetened from sugar from those plantations. Worn clothes made of material some poor child might have broken their back carrying from the field. I see all the wealth and privilege this country affords and can't help but see that it was all at the expense of the welfare and...freedom... of others. And...Because it is every human's responsibility to look after their fellow man. "

"Complete bosh! " Sherlock sniffed.

"What a tidy little world you must live in. " Pitt softened his features and looked at Sherlock with what was unmistakably pity.

"Tidy is not a word I would use. "

"But nothing gets to you? You simply don't care. The burden of the suffering of those around you is simple...not your problem. Tidy."

Sherlock's lips thinned and he spun on his heel, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. He needed to get out of here. Find out what the hell was going on. Deciding he wouldn't get the answers he needed here, he walked towards the door.

"Well, good luck with your humanity, Mr. Pitt. "

Sherlock opened the door with a flourish and stepped out closing it behind him. His eyes squinted in the now blindingly lit hallway. After his eyes adjusted he scanned the heavy wood doors that lined the hallway. He put one foot in front of the other going about half way down the hall before turning to another door. This one he knew would be John's. He needed some sanity in his mind right now, and John would help with that.

He just hoped John was what he would find on the other side.

He wasn't so sure anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

Hey guys. I wanted to clear up a little confusion, with a clue. This story is going to make less sense if Sherlock is your only exposure to Cumberbatch's work, and Cumberbatch in general. It all has a point, I promise you. LOL Hopefully if you fall into that category, then you might be inspired to check out more of said work. He's worth it, I promise you.

Anyway, on with the show.

Chapter 3

Sherlock stepped into the room and was terribly upset that he didn't find John.

He was more upset by what he DID find.

"What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft? " Sherlock bit out.

Mycroft sat back in a large leather wing back chair and smirked up at his very irate little brother.

"Come now Sherlock. You know better. John isn't here anymore. He's moved on. "

Sherlock couldn't fathom that. Suddenly, his mind saw images he couldn't possibly have witnessed.

"Mary. "

"Yes. Mary. "

"So where is he now? "

"Somewhere in this obnoxious place, I would imagine. You'll have to find him yourself. "

Sherlock grumbled and ran his hand through his already rumpled curls.

"You positive its John you are looking for? "

Sherlock turned and glared at his brother.

"I need my assistant. "

"Do you? What precisely for? "

"I need to work this out. This... " Sherlock lifted his hands, palms up and waving in every direction, " Is not my mind palace. Nothing is where it should be. There are things here that shouldn't be here. I need John to ... "

"Help you find your way home? "

Sherlock almost, but not quite...pouted.

"Maybe."

"I think you will find that home is a completely evolutionary concept, Sherlock. "

"What do you mean? "

"You aren't searching for 221B...are you? "

"Im not sure exactly what I am ... Hell, I'm not sure of much of anything anymore. 221B isn't...221B anymore. Not exactly. And there was a stranger in there. I'm not sure where I am or what to look for."

"What ARE you sure of? "

"I just told you. Dammit Mycroft, do listen. "

"You said not MUCH of anything. I can only surmise from that that there is something you are sure of. "

Sherlock began to pace.

"Its all too much. Its as if I have fallen through Alice's looking glass. "

"Back on the sauce? "

"No, Mycroft. But thank you for the touching concern. "

"Of course I am concerned about you. "

"Then help me find where John went off to. "

"John has another life to lead, Sherlock. You can't forever depend on him. "

"Why not? "

Mycroft shook his head and sighed.

"He hasn't deserted you. He'll always believe in you. "

"I'm sure of that... "

Suddenly a light shown in Sherlock's eyes.

"Welcome back to your senses, brother mine. Figured out what you need? Who you can count on? "

"Molly. "

"Yes. The ever helpful Miss Hooper. "

"I have no idea where to find her in this place. "

"Call for her. "

"What? " Sherlock looked at Mycroft like he'd lost his mind.

Mycroft raised a brow at him and pursed his lips.

"Fine. Go three rooms past the next left turn. "

"Molly will be there. "

"In a manner of speaking. "

"What is that supposed to mean? "

Mycroft didn't answer, just motioned towards the door.

Sherlock left the room, going in the direction he was given. He opened the door and walked into a room that looked remarkably like the morgue.

His eyes scanned the room for any sight of Molly.

"Molly? " He called out anxiously.

No answer.

He walked through the side door in search of her. Through them was the lab. He walked over the his favorite table. The microscope as he'd left it. Beside it, a cup of still steaming coffee. Black, two sugars he was willing to bet.

"Molly? " He called out, hating how hopeless he sounded.

He suddenly heard her voice. Faint and distant. Not totally there.

"Molly? " His own voice sounding suddenly foreign to him.

"I don't count. "

Ah... Sherlock realized with a curse falling from his lips. Damned memory.

How could she think she didn't matter to him.

Sherlock plopped down in his lab chair, still feeling her steady presence beside him. His eyes slid closed and his chest began to hurt.

Every insult he hurled at her, intended or not, hit him in the gut. Every relationship she'd tried to have that he ruined because the man " got in his way", or left Molly less accessible to him...

How could she NOT believe she'd matter to him.

He did try to rectify that. His eyes opened and he looked towards the doors.

"You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. "

She didn't look like she believed him. Not even a little. But still...

"Tell me whats wrong. Tell me what you need. "

"You. "

Of course Sherlock know Molly was in love with him. But even when he was being truthful that she mattered, he still told her this just before using her for her assistance again.

He knew she was watching as he fell from the roof. Could only imagine what she felt at that moment.

Knew she would be destroyed if his plan didn't work.

A thought suddenly dawned on him.

DID it work, or did he truly fall to his death.

Was he possibly in some warped form of hell?

And if so, he'd just made the woman who loved him more than anything in the world watch it happen, instead of being blissfully unaware inside her morgue.

The thought actually brought Sherlock to his knees.

"Molly... I'm so...so...sorry. " He whispered burying his head in his hands.

Suddenly his head came up and stark terror gripped him.

Mycroft said Molly was here. If this was hell, why was Molly here?

The implications made Sherlock's eyes widen and his breath hitch.

Suddenly, finding Molly was the only thing that mattered. Forget the stranger in his flat. Forget the strange arrangement of rooms and strangers. He had to get to her. He had to SHOW her that she mattered.

He was still not sure if hell was real, but whatever this place was was close enough to it for him. He wasn't taking chances. He swore to anyone who might be listening or not, that he would find her, beg her forgiveness, and love her as she deserved. When he got them both out of here.

Wherever here is..

He ran from the rooms back into the hallway. He went to the next door he came to and ran in. He immediately lost his footing as the floor seemed to move. He looked up in wonder as he wasn't in a room, but the deck of a very large vessel. A man stood at the railings peering out into the ocean's expanse.

"Who the hell are you, now? " Sherlock asked exasperated.

The man turned around and looked down his nose at him.

"Names Talbot. Edmund Talbot, and I will thank you not to use that tone, if you please. How did you get here? Did we take on new passengers while I slept last night? Is by any chance Miss Chumley with you? "

He looked so hopeful, Sherlock could only stare.

Shaking himself out of it, he shook his head and observed the man. Each of these rooms holds something. Like a puzzle. Perhaps they were pieces he needed to find Molly.

He didn't see how this young chap could help, but at this point... he'd try anything.


End file.
